The Amell Madness
by Carumati
Summary: A collection of short stories that were not gathered in chronological order, detailing the (mis)adventures of the grey warden, Hero of Ferelden, before, during, and after the Blight. There are hints of Amell/Cullen but it's mostly a in-depth look at the bro-ships between party members.


Summary::: A collection of short stories that were not gathered in chronological order, detailing the adventures of the grey warden, Hero of Ferelden, before, during, and after the Blight. Hints of Amell/Cullen

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: sexual humor, grammar mistakes, and time skips

**The Amell Madness**

_One_

'She's very terrible at motivational speeches,' was the first coherent thought that came to Alistair after the party's emergence from the Gauntlet, a small pouch of warm ashes proof of their success. Warden Amell walked in circles on the mountain top, gesturing with Kolgrim's horn as she announced that she decided that the group was ready to face the false Andraste. Leliana was still dazed and high off of their accomplishment, her cheeks flushed at her pleasure from the enlightenment. Leliana was sent back to camp to recuperate and Sten rose to take her place.

Amell flitted between Sten, Morrigan, and Alistair like a magpie, her mind filled with strategies to overcome the legendary beast. The Quest for Andraste's Ashes were already, in her perception, far behind her. 'Her blase attitude might be,' Alistair mused with a degree of long suffering, 'due to her abysmal opinion of the Chantry. She respects the organization and the Sisters for their income opportunities, but she's not devout like Leliana or Wynne.'

The mage's speech was losing momentum as Alistair turned his attention back to her. Her apprehension could be seen in her twitching hands, ready to reach back for her staff, and in her shaky smile, "Okay. So," she rocked back on her heels, "Once I blow this horn, the dragon will come. Keep your wits about you, try to avoid its head, aim for the underbelly, and remember that dragons can kick back. And, uh, do your best..." With her awkward leadership duties done, her face brightened from uncertainty of a reluctant commander to the glee of a child, "Are you excited? I'm super excited. This is going to be the best thing ever."

Her love for spell experimentation was one of the reasons why she and Morrigan get along like a house on fire. Case in point would be the scene he was greeted with at the end of the battle, right after he had cut through the high dragon's neck and tumbled gracelessly off the beast as it gave its last roar; he looked up, puzzled when he heard Sten heave a great sigh of exasperation. It was at that exact moment that he realized that he was standing in the eye of a twister like entity with ice and lightning whipping at his armor. Sten looked like he was struggling not to bury his face in his hands. Amell and Morrigan were dancing in the distance. Picture this: two mages cheering like dwarves at a Proving, one of them chanting, "Storm of the Century! Storm of the Century!" Amell had Morrigan's hands in her grip, twirling the shapeshifter in a circle, while Morrigan, uncharacteristically, did not push her away.

"Behold. That is the human that I follow," Sten muttered as the women's manic laughter continued.

Exhausted, Alistair took off his helmet, grimacing at the amount of blood coating the metal, "You don't say that when she offers you gloves and boots directly taken from the warm bodies of darkspawn. Let them have their fun." He turned around at the hulking mass of the High Dragon, "Help me pry off the scales. I heard that they could, with the right smith, be made into some fantastic quality armor."

_Two_

It seems like her relatively peaceful life was about to come to an end - all for the sake of young love.

Jowan lied to her. Not only that, Jowan used her.

She had known him since they were children. He was her best friend among the apprentice mages, a constant companion who willingly stayed by her side when she got too zealous with whatever topic of magic she was researching. In return, she tutored him in an attempt to find ways to better his abilities before he went through the Harrowing. Did all those years together mean nothing? Does loyalty not exist in Kinloch Hold?

Amell's lips had almost twisted into an enraged snarl as she, Jowan, and his Chantry girlfriend stood before the wrath of the First Enchanter and the Templars (Greagoir's anger is the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns) and as Jowan stepped forward with a dagger poised to slice his palm open. Well. So that's what blood magic looked like. That explained why Jowan had been spending increasingly amount of his free time with that senior mage - that bald man with that perpetual disdainful expression.

She had entertained the idea of warning Irving but the man seemed to be preoccupied with buying her time (for what, she doesn't know until his plans come to fruition), appealing directly to Knight Commander in an attempt to cast her in a somewhat less guilty light. Gregoir seemed to be listening... Sort of. She wondered if the only thing that stood between her and a very uncertain future was Gregoir and Irving and whatever lingering tension from some horrid scandalous love affair (ask the apprentices for the sordid details) they had shared.

After returning to the Circle, broken and all but crumbled on its foundations due to Uldred, she momentarily entertained what-ifs. What if she had solid proof to show to the Templars? What if she could've prevented the deaths of ninety percent of the inhabitants in the tower? What if she could go back in time and save everyone?

If she could rewind time to meet her past self, she'll kick herself in the shins for being so stupid as to not think, 'Hey, what would happen if I got caught?' when she broke into the basement to retrieve Jowan's phylacteries. The answer was: Jowan was going to make a break for it regardless of the results, leaving her to be executed or worse, tranquiled.

In the end, Jowan fled. And then Lily surrendered herself back to the Chantry. And then as Amell was about to face her own reckoning, Duncan appeared.

_Three_

On a lonely, cold night, the Hero of Ferelden arrived without warning, eager for the best hospitality that Denerim has to offer after a season's worth of "warden business, but don't worry: Nathaniel is cleaning up the dead bodies and Anders is healing the injured. We're all mostly alive." Despite having sanctioned lands, the Warden Commander still preferred to sneak into one of the Royal Palace's many guest rooms, claiming that the water was warmer here than in Amaranthine. She would then mutter something about, "the ugly Architect" and "the uglier Mother," if pressed for more information before changing the subject. The servants and guards of the castle often braced themselves for fear of the Queen's wrath but it never came. At most, Anora would have a grimace on her face when dealing with the mage warden, one very similar to that which Arl Eamon had worn once at the Landsmeet when said warden had initially nominated her mabari to fight in a one on one combat with Loghain.

Recently, the relations between the two were becoming less frigid. King Alistair, who had front row seats to the slow friendship development between warden and noble, didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. "You can busy yourself elsewhere," Anora had loftily informed him, "if you squirm that much seeing two women converse."

He had quickly backtracked, "No no, its not that." He hastily said, waving his arms about, "just don't want to leave my friend here to face the Queen's anger."

"Is that what they're calling it?" Anora had asked, exasperatedly throwing her hands up. "You've been listening to too much gossip." Amell tried and failed to hide her snicker in her ale as Alistair sputtered a denial. At least with the two women were getting along, there's no more violent tension in the air that Alistair wished that he could Holy Smite away.

The Hero of Ferelden's cheeks were glowing from the amount of whiskey that she had imbibed with the "good will" of the Queen. It was pretty obvious what Mac Tir's intentions are. The art of Orlesian manipulations was not her strong suit and it showed. Thankfully, Amell was the type to not care about being interrogated while being laden with liquor so long as the liquor was good (she got that quirk from long nights with Oghren and Wynne expounding on what makes a good collection).

A woman like Anora must hate wondering about the reasons for her patron's benevolence and goals in the world of noble politics. Since the disastrous and oddly successful Landsmeet, she has been keenly aware of who it was that allowed her to keep her seat on the throne and who had given her a husband (however reluctant he was - they were cool business partners at the best of times) that would solidify her power base. Over the past year and a half, the Guerrin family have been loosing their influence over King Alistair as small rumors began to spread: the mage son, Isolde's decision to hire the apostate, and the treatment that Alistair had begotten in Redcliffe. Chancellor Eamon eventually stepped down from his position in partial disgrace, allowing Anora more breathing room to make sweeping reforms, to reward her supporters and to punish the dissenters.

For anyone who personally knew Amell, it doesn't take a genius to know who was behind the slow shift in power. Why did she decide on a kingdom lead by King Alistair and Queen Anora?

"Alistair here," the mage patted Alistair's breastplate fondly, "he needs more time before he could rule competently. He doesn't have the right mindset. He's different from Cailan though; there is potential in him to be great. I could've... I could've..." She stared mournfully at her glass before a manservant appeared behind her to offer a refill, "When we met with Goldanna - terrible woman, honestly - I could've made him see the world like I see it, make him jaded. But..." She trailed off, her mind jumping ships again, "See, Arl Eamon wanted to mold Alistair into the image of an ideal king, a blood descendant from Calenhad, that will assist him in his own ambitions. That will happen over my dead body."

Amell didn't see the raised eyebrow Anora offered Alistair, but she did see Alistair beginning to open his mouth in protest. "Don't try to defend him," Amell irritably muttered, "yes, he was your father figure. But that man sent his son not-of-blood to the stables to sleep alongside dogs and then to the Chantry because of his newly married wife. In that part of your life, would you claim that you had a family? No matter what you say and your half-hearted defense of her does nothing, Alistair, I'm not going to change my mind. I still have a bone, a few bones, to pick with the Arlessa." The light from the candles illuminated her face, created an otherworldly shine in her eyes as she grew more somber, "And after we came out of Goldanna's house, I... I thought... I thought that the world needs an Alistair. The world doesn't need another Warden Amell."

"But there was one other option I could've chosen: the Queen Regent who didn't rebel against her traitor father and who didn't bring up the question of the Alienage until it suited her plans. While Anora has the experience and the people's love, Alistair has the blood and the heart. You two don't like each other and you probably never will, but this is still a partnership and a momentous task of rebuilding after a Blight," Amell placed her glass back on the table, peered at the two people sitting across from her, and smiled, "And if you step a toe out of the line, Mac Tir, I will end you."

_Four_

Good first impressions are a must. Good first impressions rarely ever happen. Amell screamed in Alistair's face the first time they met, mistaking him for a hostile Templar. The first time Alistair saw Amell was from afar: she was wandering around Ostagar Camp with an awed look on her face, staring at everyone, most notably craning her head back to gaze up at the sky, causing her to trip over every little pebble on the road. 'Oh right,' he realized, 'Duncan said that the newest recruit was a mage, one who has probably never stepped outside of the stone tower.'

As a general rule of life, second impressions are far different from first impressions. During their time in the wilds obtaining vials of darkspawn blood, Alistair thought that Amell was overcompensating in her battle prowess in an attempt to prove that she was not a mere woman by displaying bloodthirsty tendencies (a well placed Arcane Bolt once took off the head of a genlock) and laughing manically as she burned their enemies. But as their travels progressed after the fall of Ostagar, he realized with a sense of affection and horror that this was who she truly was. On the other hand, Amell's second impression of Alistair was a startling realization that her fellow warden wasn't a mage-hating Templar but an honest-to-Maker mabari with a strange affection for rune stones.

_Five_

At any time of the day, her pack will consist of the following: a tent that she never used, at least five bottles of lyrium, at least ten bottles of health poultices, at least two injury kits, the Warden's Oath amulet, a small telescope that she had snatched from a patrolman in Ostagar, and a star map that Alistair gifted to her from one of the little shops that they passed by in Lothering. On moon-less, clear nights, Amell and Leliana would navigate with the constellations ahead as they search for game in the forest.

_Six_

To her new companions, Amell's past was a mystery wrapped in a riddle surrounded by an enigma. It was common knowledge that she once called Kinloch Hold a home, but how did she fare there? Who from her past was close to her? Wynne's induction to the team brought in untold amounts of information, at least if you ply her with some aged wine; otherwise all one gets is a set of pursed lips and a slight narrowing of eyes. Mildly inebriated, Wynne will spin a tale of a precocious child who once used Stonefist as a way of knocking Templars into each other because "she thinks that the sound they make while hitting each other is pretty funny" and was subsequently the youngest mage ever to have experienced a Smite before Irving could rescue her.

From the limited number of people that the rag tag group had interacted with that came from her pre-warden life, her companions managed to build a small picture of their fearless leader.

When meeting Jowan in the dungeons, her face contorted in both fury and despair at his own adventures; she looked to be a second away from palming her face and walking back out of the secret passage. "What did you do now?" She aggrieved as Jowan kept proclaiming that he didn't mean to poison the Arl, okay, he did, but he didn't mean for the corpses to kill everyone.

When she walked through the front doors of the Circle, she pasted on a facial expression that was far different from her confident grin and one that more or less resembled a cornered animal. Her smile showed too much teeth when talking Knight-Commander Gregoir out of an Annulment. She carefully avoided the gaze of any templar they walked past. The less said about Knight Cullen, the better. "His affections towards you borders on adoration," Zevran observed after Amell negotiated with First Enchanter Irving the means of getting Dagna, a dwarf from Orzammar, transportation to the tower. "Are you sure you had no idea what so ever when you lived here?" The assassin continued to prod until the mage waved his questions away with an annoyed hiss.

"We were friends - as friendly as a mage and a templar can get." The grey warden shook her head, rubbing her temples, "Well, it does explain why he suddenly developed that stutter and became very... Uh... Yes, I suppose I should've noticed at some point." She shrugged, "But I'm pretty terrible at recognizing those sort of body languages. Its surprising? I'm not quite the person who immediately stands out in a crowd. Besides," she gave a bitter laugh as the silhouette of the Circle tower disappeared in the distance, "he wants to kill all mages now, doesn't he? We're a group of degenerate, barely-human magic-wielders who will summon demons at the slightest opportunity. He'll join the ever increasing population of Ferelden that believes so."

(Wynne knew of the infamous friendship between Cullen and Amell and all the possible what-could-have-beens between them - it was the worst kept secrets of Kinloch Hold besides the still occasional rumors between Irving and Gregoir that were still heard circulating among apprentice mages. She kept silent as the young mage attempted to avoid talking of her past, understanding that the topic was still sore for her and that one of the ways to heal the wounds from traversing the sloth demon's Fade, the Broken Circle, and Cullen's words was to distance herself from the people who conjured up those memories.) The senior mage didn't have words of wisdom to parse out after her statement. Not that Amell expected her to: the two Circle mages differed greatly in ideals.

"I thought that all legal mages were all cut from the same cloth," Morrigan had idly poked at her fire with a stick, feeding it to get enough light to make out some of the more intricate writings in Flemeth's grimoire, "That doesn't seem to be so."

"I don't hate you like Wynne does," Amell had delicately replied to the unasked question, "You're just difficult to like, though it is possible that you've grown on me, like fungus. The Circle mages were allowed different opinions as long as they didn't act upon it. The senior mages, Wynne and Irving and the likes, all fight for the status quo. Others wish for more mage rights. Some even advocate the use of Blood Magic as a way to free our shackles of our oppressors."

"And you? What does our leader think?"

Her? Well, the hypocrisy makes Amell want to scream sometimes. The grey wardens use blood magic in their joining. Jowan used blood magic not to fight or summon demons but to escape. Wynne can talk of the Chantry's Maker and then of a Fade spirit that resides in her all in the same breath. "Wynne is a healer who specializes in Creation magic. I am not suited for that branch. Therefore, she never liked me to begin with." Amell doesn't mention that while in the Circle, she whispered secrets on how to shapeshift into a mouse to a fellow mage named Anders. At this point, she has no opinion of the constant mage-templar feud that pushes and pulls in Ferelden for everyday, she learns how both sides are in the wrong. She's so tired that her initial hatred of Blood Magic has all but turned to apathy. It's all about power and abuse, freedom and imprisonment; there are so many shades of gray that it makes her head spin. She's steadfast on the mages' side but there are people out there like Uldred who gave themselves readily to Fade Demons. Likewise, there are Cullens who wants to kill every magic wielder who so much as smiles at them in the wrong way. A mage uprising isn't imminent, but there is a festering disquiet kept beneath a boiling lid threatening to explode. More and more mages are disillusioned with their lot in life and there are more Templars that fear and hate. Soon, it won't even be who was in the right or whose fault it was to begin with, there will be a rebellion and the system will change, for better or worse.

_Seven_

Surprisingly, it was Alistair that brought the two Circle mages to a truce. Correction: it was Alistair's socks and the fact that he constantly needed them to be darned that allowed Wynne and Amell to bond.

"His socks smell as bad as your dog," Wynne scoffed, picking up said offensive clothing as if to air them out, "I have to my tent next to Oghren who doesn't believe in socks. His feet are the worst offenders. That stench makes me dream of Jowan's smalls when they were defecated by the cave spiders."

"I remember that incident," Amell wrinkled her nose. "I wish I hadn't. I can't say that I wish that I was in your position. Sten is an angel compared to the other warriors in our party. He can sew and do his own laundry and cook and clean... Quite like you, honestly. Why, last week, Zevran caught him picking Andraste's Grace! I gave him my own share of cookies to prevent him from hurling himself at the poor man."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have teased him," Zevran acquiesced from across the fire.

"No. That was great. You should do that more often," Amell quickly said,wincing as Wynne shot her a dirty look. Zevran perked back up and returned happily wiping blood off of his dual blades. "He was in a bad mood after giving his own stash away to the Templar that he himself had taken from," she tried and failed to surpress her laughter, "a slovenly thing."

"Do not find humor in this, child!" the senior mage scolded, "how would you feel if you were young and a Qunari swooped down and took off with your snacks?"

"Swooping is bad," Amell replied, in a tone suggesting that the two grey wardens of the group were clearly spending way too much time together.

_Eight_

After navigating through the castle's many halls and stairs, after hearing Isolde's ear piercing pleas, the group made an unanimous decision to visit the Circle to recruit mages to save Connor. Well, almost unanimous - Amell's reluctance to return to the tower was fairly obvious. "Tea-Gaan," Amell muttered under her breath as she reached the courtyard, mimicking the Arlessa's accent and pitch, "You must go alone into the castle, Tea-Gaan. We have to get the lyrium and mages to save Connor, Tea-Gaan. Tell the warden to get the Sacred Ashes of Andraste, Tea-Gaan. Maker, the entire Guerrin family must have a weakness for Orlesian women."

"So," Oghren whispered to Leliana as the group ran back to camp, "Are all Orlesians, you know, that... High? Must be terrible in the sack if you have to cover up your ears while doing the deed. How would you be able to hold a woman like that down?" He got slapped for that comment and was about to be further beaten into a pulp if it wasn't for the tell-tale sound of Amell kicking a locked chest in frustration.

"One day," Leliana vowed through gritted teeth as she aimed one last kick at Oghren's wheezing frame, "I am going to sit Zevran down with a chest and I will teach him how to pick locks."

_Nine_

"I bet the nightmares won't ever go away." the mage warden muttered around a bottle offered from Oghren's secret stash. She took a swig and handed it over to Alistair, "They won't just going to be about spiders, they're going to be spiders and ogres and Broodmothers." Wynne is on hand, already busying herself with brewing a hangover potion. Branka's madness was still clear in the team's heads, hanging over them like a suffocating fog. Oghren, their newest member, didn't even elect to stick around and talk that night. Instead, he wordlessly offered the wardens a bottle of aged whiskey and then ducked into his own tent to get equally sloshed. "I think of Hespith... Maker, I want to puke again."

"Even our leader needs sleep," Zevran tsked at the pair.

"But I'm scared of sleeping," Amell whispered as she watched Alistair take two deep gulps and hand it back to her.

"We will wake you up if you begin to scream." Zevran noted firmly, eyeing everyone else in the group who nodded. "For now, calm your thoughts and think of happy memories. Recovery begins here."

Alistair gave a watery laugh, "Happy memories, hmm? Eating cheese at Redcliffe... Duncan recruiting me into the grey wardens..."

Amell hiccuped, "Playing chess with Cullen while Jowan sits at the side making the stupidest commentary when I should be studying..." She hurriedly wipes away her tears, "that time when I learned that I have actual family out there, somewhere" she murmured as her eyes close.

_Ten_

Queen Anora stood on the balcony overlooking the Landsmeet as the hushed crowd of nobles watched Alistair step over the body of her father. Her gaze strayed from his defiant posture and toward the grey warden who was single-handedly responsible for the duel.

Amell's expression was one of grim satisfaction, which was barely a step up from the one she had been wearing when her father moved the rabble masses with his rhetoric moments prior. And then, as if sensing her silent observation, Amell looked up, matched Anora Mac Tir's stare, and smiled.

It was at that moment that Queen Anora truly felt fear.

_Eleven_

It was good that grey warden recruitment in Ferelden didn't falter these days post-Blight due to the public awe of the deeds done by the Hero of Ferelden. On the other hand, the lack of anonymity could get a bit overwhelming. "Is it true that you can turn an ogre into ash with just one spell?" A Denerim potential recruit asked as he dogged her heels. "I heard from my mam that you killed a dragon in under a minute!"

"It comes with practice," she soothed the man, just barely out of boyhood, as she examined the map and tried to determine the quickest route to Amaranthine.

Give her a few more days of fawning by her fans and all of the praises will go to her head. With her misfit group disbanded, there was no buffer between her and her egoism. During Alistair's coronation, when she was swarmed by well-wishers, Oghren was quick to offer the story of that one time when she either accidentally burned Leliana's and Zevran's clothes off or accidentally stumbled on a spell combination that occurs when one layers glyphs of paralysis and repulsion together, causing the whole team to freeze in the path of a charging ogre. "Whoops," she had blandly apologized afterwards, "my bad."

The recruits reminded her of a bunch little Alistair-mabaris, especially when she's overlooking their training and trying to stifle her laughter as to not lower the overall morale of Vigil's Keep. When King Alistair came to visit and oversee part of the renovations, the two were forced to observe in the shadows as they snickered like teenagers every time a mage botched a spell, a warrior tripped over her feet, or a rogue stepped on a twig while in stealth. "Were we ever like that?" Alistair asked wonderingly through a stream of tears.

Amell corrected him, "We were better."

Alistair grinned, "We were the best."

_Twelve_

She has the most intriguing fascination with rogues. Long ago in Lothering, when Leliana had asked to join their party, citing a mere vision from the Maker as her sole reason. Amell, not even believing in a divine power, happily chirped her assent, leaving everyone, including Leliana, bemused at her amiability. She seemed increasingly pleased with her choice the more frequently Leliana pickpocketed from the people of the cities that they visited. "Its all for the Grey Warden Fund," she jokingly said as Leliana handed her a tiara of artisan make. "Leliana, you are our treasurer," she gushed as the bard preened under the compliment.

When Zevran asked to be spared, Amell stared at him for a long time, eyeing his dual daggers, before grinning, all teeth, and invited him into the party. "He's good at fighting and we'll burn him if he betrays us." However, it took Alistair a very long time to warm up to the elf and he worried to the point that he brought up the topic by the fire where the whole party was dining.

"Rogues," Amell mused, testing the word out on her tongue, "are like adult cats. Self sufficient and able to claw out any enemy visible. Warrirors," she addressed to the other third of the party, "are like mabaris." The actual mabari of the group, made an inquiring whine.

"I resent that statement," Sten rumbled from his end of the camp.

Amell was not moved, "Sten, you speak dog. You have conversations with the dog about how to gain spell resistance through sheer willpower. You have no ground to stand on."

"And what are mages then, child?" Wynne asked from Sten's other side.

"The sane ones," Amell replied proudly, which caused everyone in the group, not including Wynne, to choke on their drinks in disbelief.

_Thirteen_

"I want to apologize," Amell slammed her pint of ale onto the table of the Gnawed Noble Tavern, eyes cloudy with alcohol but clearly determined in some round-about way.

Alistair was non-plussed at this sudden change in the atmosphere around the table. He traded looks with Oghren, who grunted and chugged the rest of his mug down. "For what?"

Amell waited until Alistair brought his glass to his lips, "your virginity," she enunciated, clearly enjoying as the King of Ferelden choked, "I'm sorry," she continued, drunk-happy, "for making you lose it to the one woman that you wouldn't bed with even if she was the last woman in all of Thedas. I should've taken you to the Pearl at least once before the Landsmeet or at least pushed you to that pirate, Isabela. Now all you have is Anora and we all know that she won't put out, especially now that she knows that grey wardens are sterile... Wait, what is stopping you from going to the Pearl. We should go. Right now."

Alistair stammered for a few moments, trying to shush Oghren who was laughing uproariously and in danger of falling off of his seat, "Don't attract attention to us! People aren't suppose to know I'm here!" Cheeks reddening like a bad sunburn, he addressed Amell with the remains of his dignity, "Amell... Please... It was for Morrigan's ritual, a good cause."

"As humble as I will myself, I'll offer to find your child for you," Amell muttered with her forehead pressed against the table, "I promised Morrigan I wouldn't but neither of us were good at promises to each other. Your progeny will have the soul of an old god but its still yours. You always wanted a family."

"I have a family here," Alistair gently corrected her rubbing small circles into her back, "not of blood, but of choice."

_Fourteen_

After the Blight, Warden Commander Amell was asked where her feet would lead her. "To Vigil's Keep to rebuild. There are still darkspawn about, waiting to be killed," she raised a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, "After that? I'm not sure. There's a whole world before me, outside of Kinloch Hold that I can explore. I'm never going to ensconce myself back into the tower, not after seeing the stars."


End file.
